As I prepare to leave law librarianship, I keep returning to one realization: the library changed—and ultimately saved—my life.
As a child, I was dyslexic, off the chart hyperactive, and so unable to self-regulate that I was expelled from multiple schools. Ritalin, touted in the 1970s as a miracle drug, was offered as a solution to my exhausted parents. It subdued my hyperactivity enough that I could make it through the school day, though it did little to address the challenges I faced as a learner. Unable to read until third grade, academic and social struggles led to such relentless bullying and rejection that I eventually tried to run away.
There was, however, one place where I didn’t feel judged: the library.
Librarians encouraged me, helped me become a reader, and gave me a sense of safety. The library became a place of hope and healing. I’ve since realized libraries offer that same refuge, possibility, and human connection to many whose stories often go unseen.
Years later, that refuge became my calling.
My first library job was at Hartford Public Library at The American Place. There, I met people whose struggles far exceeded my own: adults learning to read after missed opportunities in childhood, parents navigating technology just to support incarcerated children, the Digital Divide, patrons facing mental illness, loneliness, and housing insecurity.
In Hartford Public Library’s Immigration Program, I witnessed extraordinary resilience. I met women who had survived unimaginable violence. I met the Bosnian couple who had lost their spouses and children in the war and found each other in a Refugee camp, giving them a second chance at happiness.
I met a Polish widow who continued attending ESL classes even after mastering English, because her fellow students had become her only source of companionship, and a man from Brazil with Alzheimer’s who cried when he was granted the disability waiver and awarded U.S. Citizenship.
I celebrated with a pre-literate woman from Ghana who passed the writing portion of the citizenship exam through determination and the help of volunteer tutors. Their stories reminded me that libraries are places of dignity, hope, and belonging.
In serving others, I began to heal. Over time, I came to see my learning disability not as something to hide, but as part of the person I had become and a call to help others. It feels especially meaningful to reflect on that journey during Disability Pride Month, which reminds us that our differences are not barriers to belonging—they are part of who we are.
I arrived to UConn Law Library with enthusiasm and a deep belief in the mission of libraries, but not yet the confidence nor skills to succeed. In law school and the workforce, I worked hard to hide my disability, compensating, and afraid to disclose it for fear of judgment.
My intelligent, generous and patient law library colleagues shared their knowledge and skills. I saw that eccentricities and challenges could be celebrated, rather than disparaged. What I viewed as shortcomings could also be strengths. I learned from them, and together, we supported students and public patrons who need an ear to listen to, to feel accepted and belonged.
Libraries taught me that every person deserves a place where they are welcomed. I carry profound gratitude for the colleagues, mentors, patrons, and libraries that saved me.
Libraries save lives every day. Mine just happens to be one of them.
I can only hope that, in some small way, I have helped libraries do the same for others.
